COLUMN: My adventures in road trippin’
My original plans for this spring break had come to a painful demise, leaving me with a week off that looked about as exciting as an episode of “Mr. Bean,” a handful of laughs, but mostly awkward noises.
I moped around my apartment for days with nothing but depressing visions of going to bed early, watching “Dragon Tales” on a fuzzy screen due to a severely damaged antenna, raking pine needles at my family’s home in Tooele and wishing – pleading even – for someone, anyone, to call me and make my upcoming spring break even remotely interesting.
My prayers were answered when I was informed by Mike, my trusty liege, that his family was curious if I wanted to join them for a trip to Las Vegas for the WAC tournament. I screamed my acceptance so loudly someone may have thought I was Henry Rowengardner and I’d just been asked to pitch for the Chicago Cubs.
Cue me and the always vibrant McPhie family, snuggled in their family sedan three weeks later. Though very comfortable, it goes without saying that I felt out of place going on vacation with a family other than mine. It felt as if I was sucked into a National Lampoon’s “Vacation” film.
I was tired and hungry, having been in a car for hours. I tried to occupy my time by catching up on homework but wasn’t able to clear my mind because it was suddenly laden with trying to figure out every movie that ever featured Rick Moranis. It seemed dismal, but I was just happy to be going somewhere.
Three or four hours into counting livestock and silently laughing to Marty’s ‘80s hair-band themed mixed cassette tape, the car began to slow down. It turned out the McPhies had the same notion my one-liter bottle of Pepsi had for me: ‘twas time for a pit stop. We waited for any sign of civilization for 20 minutes and finally pulled into the fast-paced, jet-streaming economic cavern of Milford, Utah, commonly known as the city that, as opposed to New York City, ALWAYS sleeps.
Most small towns are considered to be dead. But this place, oh man. It was more likely a dug-up corpse of ancient Mesopotamia. I felt like a character in “The Quick and the Dead” alone, confused, and incredibly frightened that Leonardo DiCaprio, Gene Hackman, or worse, Sharon Stone was going to jump out and take me out with a Colt 45. I finally know what Billy Crystal must have felt like when he did “City Slickers.”
We slowly strolled around the township seeking out a proper place to relieve our waters, finding only fifth-wheel trailers and what I’m almost sure was the original cast of “Rio Lobo.” It made it all the better that Marty’s tape was currently blasting Quiet Riot’s “Come on Feel the Noise.” The contrast of it all made me chuckle.
Then, to our left, by the grace of something much greater than us all, we found a small gas station. We jumped out and fled into the establishment as if seeking sanctuary.
I walked slowly into the place, which smelled like a mixture of tobacco smoke and either motor oil or some really old apple juice. Their public restroom was better suited for an Appalachian-bound cabin: small, brown in several places that should be white, and protected from odor only by a single yellow car air freshener, jasmine flavored, hanging on an exposed pipe that came through the wall and led to most likely nowhere.
I did my uric acid-inspired duty, washed my hands twice with what I was sincerely praying was soap, grabbed a handful of beef jerky, gave a wink and a smile to the cash register lady by the name of Jeanine and made my way ever so swiftly back to the car. Never have I been so relieved to be scrunched in the back of a vehicle in my life.
The rest of the weekend went swimmingly. We had good fun, good food, great weather and lost our voices watching some fantastic basketball. But most of all I had learned a very valuable lesson. The treasure in these vacations is not the destination; in fact, it’s not even in the journey. It’s in the dusty, stench-ridden pit stops on the way that give us both character and stories to tell.
I’m just joshing you. It’s totally about the destination. Vegas rocked.
All in all, though, it’s great to be back in Logan. I mean, if nothing else, this place sure beats watching “Dragon Tales.” That show gives me the creeps.
– steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu